Fate's Game
by NTSFroes
Summary: What if Fate suddenly decided to be more messed up than it already is? The answer is quite clear: Harry's life would get even more troublesome. Mycroft's diet would die somewhere along the way. Moriarty would blow up a few things. Voldemort wouldn't keep behind schedule with the world's madness either. All in all, Fate should be bound up with tape.
1. Prologue

**Hey, look at what I'm doing! Publishing a new fanfic when it should be the very last thing to do! Yay me! On second hand, I do need to get the hang of writing fanfiction once again so it might be excused as some sort of training... Right?**

**Anyways, once I manage to somehow be Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, J.K. Rowling and the awesome producers of BBC's Sherlock all at the same time, I'll let you know so that you can build a temple in my homage or something. Seriously, that would be too awesome to be human.**

**Huge annoying A/N that you probably won't want to read postponed to the end of the chapter.**

* * *

Sumarry:What if Fate suddenly decided to be more messed up than it already is? The answer is quite clear: Harry's life would get even more troublesome. Mycroft's diet would die somewhere along the way. Moriarty would blow up a few things. Voldemort wouldn't keep behind schedule with the world's madness either. All in all, Fate should be bound up with tape. This is as much Fate's game as it is mine - and I invite you to participate.

* * *

A Prologue in Three Parts

_-Fate's Note-_

Dear Harry Potter,

You keep saying that I hate you... But I don't. In fact, I like you more than most humans. You are... Special to me. I know that is exactly what you are trying to say and avoid but... I'm not doing this for your forgiveness. It is just that nobody is happy at how it ended.

No, really. It was kind of lame. Just my opinion. But it is not me that matters, it is Death.

I think Someone once described it very accurately as "Death is on a rant again". Death was already fuming at having a Master, you see, but having you killed by Lord Bloody Voldemort sent him onto irrationality. I think if I don't step in he will just chuck you right back to life, the rules be damned.

Alright, I might be sidestepping the whole regulation a bit, but I do that all the time. Death is a rule freak. I won't let him be miserable the next few ages because of that. Principally when it seems so much of the whole matter was decided because of the manipulations of a certain headmaster. Mortals shouldn't just get their way in this kind of matter, it is just illogical.

You know what? I was just going to rewind the timeline a bit... But I just had the most glorious idea ever! Order will most likely be pissed, but who the hell gives a damn to what the bastard thinks? Let's mess this story up a bit!

The thing is, dear Harry, that if you start thinking Fate is too messed up, then you haven't even touched the tip of the iceberg that is my awesomely chaotic personality. Also, I kinda like my demands obeyed... So if I say you are the one with power to vanquish the Dark Lord, you are going to vanquish. The. Freaking. Dark. Lord! Now take this sorry ass of yours back to life and start Boy-Who-Living!

The game is afoot!

* * *

_-The Baby-Who-Lived-_

Harry had been hit by the Avada Kedavra from the Elder Wand.

He wouldn't have been able to tell how long it had been since that happened. It could have been a second, a week or a century. He wondered what was going to happen with the war, Hogwarts and his friends now he was dead... Then he felt some kind of surface beneath him.

He realized he must have a touch sense for that to be possible and therefore he must have a body too. He was further surprised when he simultaneously made the connection that since he was on a surface he must be somewhere and that whatever he was feeling was definitely soft. Was it.. Something akin to cushioning?

He opened his eyes and found himself staring... At a ceiling?

What.

It was white, or would have been white if not for the scorched marks all over the place, leading to a massive blast hole which took over almost an entire wall of the-

No way.

Goddryck's Hollow.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Was this hell or something?

He tried to sit up, but it was way too difficult, his head was too heavy and - he finally managed - it was hurting a lot! His scar had never hurt so bad! Everything was so inconceivable and his thoughts were foggy-

And he was a baby. What the bloody hell was happening-

Harry interrupted his frantic baby crying - since when was he crying? - and stared, as the smoke that had been forming in the room took the shape of an enraged face, an horribly familiar face, and was blown out of the room by the wind, terribly, slowly, with a painful scream.

Oh my God.

He couldn't be actually his one year old self again, could he?

Something, somewhere, must have gone wrong.

He had no idea what was supposed to be happening, but he was almost sure it wasn't that.

He looked, in complete horror, as his mother's body and the once-mass-murderer's body, both unelegantly sprawling in the soft carpet of their deaths, slowly faded from focus due to the tears streaming out of his eyes.

* * *

_-The Crisis-Managing Ice-Man_-

Mycroft Holmes decided there was something severely wrong with the logic of the universe.

Why? Because in his minor position in the British Government he should have been aware of all departments of the Ministry, _specially_ the secret ones. It was as if the Ministry of Magic had been sprung out from nothingness the very same day the figures in robes started parading with their owls (_wizards_. They called themselves wizards.)

Let's not even dwell in the event of his stumbling upon the oddly named department, or initial amused skepticism being shoved aside by crescent worry.

Up to the moment he paraded into the Ministry of Magic from the visitor's entrance that night, he had made several deductions:

1) the Ministry of Magic (and their society in general) was trying to _hide_ from him.

Be it because of what they called the Statute of Secrecy (which's existence was a giveaway on itself) or for some other reason, the so-called witches and wizards went to great extent to hide themselves (except for the fact they had gone out partying on the streets that exact night. He certainly hoped that was not going to repeat itself). Of course, their attempts were futile and it wouldn't take Sherlock to notice them, but if neither of the Holmes brothers had even smelled a hint of them up to that October 31st-

2) the Magical Society hadn't existed before that day.

But they seemet strongly traditional and an entire culture can't be created in a day. Again, he would have noticed something if it had been there for longer than that, but in that aspect his deduction made no sense. If Sherlock's saying that eliminating the impossible whatever remains, whereas improbable-

3) magic was real.

When was that supposed to be possible? Oh my.

Shock aside (anyone else than the Ice Man certainly wouldn't have been capable of pulling that one off), it would explain many things, as the flying motorcycle, people disappearing with a crack, little sticks that blasted light and a few other oddities the CCTV had captured in the last few hours, much better than a sudden influx of unknown and physics-defying technology. It could be actually pretty useful - or pretty dangerous. Which brought us to

4) magical folk probably had a very bad relationship with non-magical folk in whatever universe they existed before (it was very odd that this was actually a plausible explanation instead of a figure of speech).

He was going to have to thread very carefully with them and ascertain diplomatics before this became a security issue. That was one of the reasons he was doing this himself even with all the footwork it meant, accompanied by whatever-was-the-current-name-of-his-assistant, in those robes she swore to be fit for the occasion and yet made him feel rather silly nonetheless. He had to talk with the Minister of Magic, as the nameplate from the telephone bin suggested, even though the magical universe seemed to be at some kind of convulsion at that point and it didn't seem due to anything non-magical-related. (Note to self: averiguate mentioned convulsion.) And lastly,

5) he had to be on control of this before people like Moriarty were, or he would have a reason to freak out like his little brother was or would be once he figured everything out. Which was yet another thing he had to look onto and he better have a few scones as a reward for that horrible Halloween or he was going to quit his diet altogether.

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**A/N: so... I have no plans whatsoever for this story except it is a Master of Death Harry story, a Harry Potter and a Timetravel story and maybe a Sherlock Adopts Harry story. So I'll let you guys dictate how this is going to flow.**

**... Do warn me if I'm making anyone's life too easy in this story, I'll promptly unleash hell upon them.**

**If you want to leave reviews answering the questions like "how do you feel about time skips?" or "should the Allegorical Characters (OCs) make actual appearances or be left be?" or "should Harry change Houses?" or "Sherlock's reaction to magic?" "chapter length?" or any other idea you feel like giving, do so. I don't promise to use all of them and probably it would be impossible to do so, but I'll do my best. So... What do you want for next chapter? More Harry!action or more Sherlock!action, or should it be a mix?**

**Review away, even if only to leave me a smiley face. Or a flame. Though my ego is easily hurt and I might decide to abandon the story altogether if you make me unhappy enough.**

**Updating Schedule: don't expect frequency, as I said, bad moment to start writing. But again, ****no plans, no seriousness, and as such, I am barely re-reading this before inflicting it upon the world, so it shouldn't take too long if I don't start being irresponsible.**

**Pairings: no. I can't possibly make everyone happy in that regard because the opinions of which couple rocks or sucks is completely irregular. I'll only adopt one if there is an influx of almost unanimous such-pairing-demands, it makes sense in existing and I can actually write it. Because I'm terrible with romance. While we're on it, I refuse to write anything explicit. I can have fluff, teasing, even fanservice, but there is censoring for a reason and I can barely read those down to business things without being terribly awkward, not to mention actually writing it.**

**Character Death: I'm not going to kill anyone off or spare their lives just because you asked me to if it spoils the whole story. Get over it. But I am ready to hearing you out on advocating the character's salvation/damnation and if I agree on it you have your way. I also understand the power of public acclamation and would, like, have killed Joffrey off somewhere around book two of Song of Ice and Fire. Yet, if I feel like being evil with you all, well... Hope it doesn't come down to that.**

**Plotline: you can dissuade me of anything I said that still didn't happen. Like even those three things I mentioned in the beginning of the A/N, though you'll have to have a real good reasoning and if anyone else is backing me off in the argument I might ignore it. If I do decide on something more sure about the plotline and become less inspired on readers suggestion only I'll warn you all, ok?**

**The Game: I should explain how this works... This is kind of a game in which I challenge myself to write most of what you guys ask me to so if you want an specific scene done or anything like that just say and I'll put the best of my abilities to have it done. I used to do that with my friends when I was younger and I sort of like the game so I kind of decided to get it to a larger scale...? It is an experiment, so if I find it doesn't works please don't hate me. It shall be hard, but fun, to me, and I hope it is equally agreeable to all of you that want to have it a go.**

**Feeling like a mercenary of sorts here.**

**Anyway, hope you liked this prompt-prologue-teaser thing and may your path always lead to popcorn.**

**(Review! This whole thing only works if you review!)**


	2. Chapter 1

**So... First chapter. Or something.**

**Disclaimer: while I find it funny to come up with different ways to say I don't own something, the message in itself is rather depressing. Not mine, though.**

* * *

Chapter One

-A lunch, a whine and a scent-

The table was packed with grotesquely sweet, salty and fat food enough to give anyone a stroke and a half. Mycroft ate away.

He was preoccupied.

The source of his uneasiness wasn't the Royal Family, nor his brother, nor the general incompetence of the people whose job he usually did (though all of these were a constant nagging at the back of his mind).

The source of nis uneasiness was the magical society which called itself Wizarding Britain, which was completely messed up.

It was like walking into his always-so-tidy room and find Sherlock did experiments all ove it. No, it was even worse. They didn't have an administrative problem as much as they didn't have an administration at all.

Mycroft stabbed a pudding rather viciously with his spoon and the sweet shook all over the place.

The Wizarding Society was just coming out of a war.

_A war._

As in outright militar conflict.

In Britain.

When it was under his jurisdiction.

Suddenly the innocent milky pudding seemed nasty, rancid, and not to fit at all with the rest of the food. He put it away with a grimace.

The Minister of Magic was suffering Impeachment for his appalling leading skills during the war time.

Not surprising, of course, the man didn't seem to have much of a wit during the small time they had talked. In fact, Mycroft hadn't even been payed attention to properly, so distraught the minister had been. He supposed the state of unawareness and confusion was far earlier than the news of the impending demissing. In fact, it was rather regarded with relief.

He had to pay attention to the candidates, then, but... There laid other problem.

All strong candidates seemed to have something impending them from taking charge. He started building a ham-packed sandwich and enumerating the what-ifs strong candidates.

Bartholomeus Crouch Senior seemed to be facing a familiar drama, which turned out to be a scandal, which impeded any political career from going smoothly. Actually, he was adding lots of butter to his sandwich at that because there were too many scandals around at the moment and the entire population seemed to be growing fond of the shove-all-problems-under-a-rug-and-pretend-it-never-happened policy. As if that had ever worked. World War Two didn't seem to have taught the wizards much. Of course, the wizards knew it as Grindewald's War and he didn't have enough information over it yet to asset his judgment of that conflict. He was too busy with the contemporary one. He needed more cheese.

Back to the subject, he didn't know what was the problem with the double war hero Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore that he didn't step in to take the leader-of-magical-Britain spot, but on second thought, it probably was what _wasn't_ wrong with him. His position as headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry seemed a lot more stable, strong and influential one. The Ministry of Magic seemed to have a historical tendency of being overthrown every time there was a struggle. Which was such a not-good thought he started nibbling at something sugar-coated while the sandwich was not ready yet. He was going to need to talk with the old man eventually.

Other strong politician, Lucius Malfoy, (and the rest of renowed Pureblood leaders) was too busy trying to get out of the neck-deep pit of having aligned with the losing side. Which was good, since this specific faction of the Wizarding community was anti-non-wizards (he wasn't very fond of the therm "Muggle") and supported terrorism. He was actually half sure the only reason Malfoy hadn't been judged guilty of being a terrorist himself was because of the lack if proofs. Maybe he should just put Sherlock on the case and have them all arrested by the end of the day. Or not, after all, his little brother didn't have all that much tact and he had heard of mind-damaging spells enough to panic at the thought of ever having him face the wrong side of a wand.

He had better take care of Lucius Malfoy himself. If his inferences were right, the man was going to immediately start doing the exatc same thing he was trying to do when he was free of suspicion - control the tides of politics in the Ministry from the backstage. Which was easier for Malfoy, since he was member of the Wizengamont and controlled half the media. He had to find a way to blackmail the terrorist, or something. He put a few extra sugar cubes on his tea and tore his way through the sandwich.

A rather sour subject made his despising the probable winner of the elections Cornelius Fudge's easily manipulated little mind and possibility of a struggle against the blood purist pale by comparison.

If the war came back to haunt them, which he was sure would happen, there was no way the non-wizards could defend themselves from the terrorists, because technology didn't work properly in the presence of magic. Obviously there was a way around that rule, if the flying motorcycle and rumored flying Ford Anglia were anything to go by. He had already set a laboratory at Bakersville for the research and was looking for suitable wizards and scientists to take on the project. It was good to have something half-set towards a solution, for once.

Also, it seemed the whole war had been brought to a dramatic ending which involved an one year old child defeating the leader of the opposition. Which didn't make any sense even with all the magic around. He refused to believe it made any sense. The way Albus Dumbledore took charge of everything remotely related to the fabled Boy-Who-Lived wasn't putting him at ease, either. The fact the magical population seemed ready to shove all their problems back to the child's shoulders at the first sign of complication made him wonder how the Macarons were over so fast. People were so hard to deal with. He wanted to go to the Dyogenes Club and pout there.

At least nobody could blame him for not doing his researches, however primary they still were. In his defense, he was on the case for less than a week and all the terrible footwork was putting him behind schedule. He had bought some uncounspicious owls, obviously, and got a heavily warded floo line at the fireplace of his office, but the archaic-ness of the Wizarding World wasn't helping and there was a limit of how much attention he could deliver that single subject without neglecting the rest of his duties, something he was not willing to do.

It cost him lots of self restraint not to call on Sherlock and point him to some slightly odd case which would bring him to contact with wizards and have him unleashed on the Aurors Deparment, throwing tantrums over their low IQ and solving half his problems inadvertedly. Like the Sirius Black case. He had almost choked with the notion of summary punishment when he heard of it, but yet again didn't have time to fix little wrongs when the whole system was crumbling. He cursed at yet another loose end. And at the impending end of his lunch break.

It cost more than self restraint and consumed a ridiculous amount of his time to try to keep his little brother away from the wizards altogether, because of his aforementioned fear of having Sherlock's ego stalk right into the aim of a Death Eater before he could make sure he would be safe. He was having to practically shove cases under his nose, one after another, as curious as he could get, as far away as possible, but it probably would not be enough, and the lack of criminal action lately wasn't being helpful. He had a suspicion it was Moriarty's fault, however clouded the name's real meaning still was, but it was not as if he had time to dwell on the criminal mastermind either-

Mycroft reached for his phone, which had received a text.

_"We need to talk. The Leaky Cauldron. Come at once, if convenient. -SH."_

It was really a wonder he managed not to facepalm.

* * *

Lucius threw himself facefist on the bed like the drama-queen he really was, complete with a heartfelt sigh.

"I hate muggles," he whined into the sheets, his voice coming muffled and barely comprehensible.

"Yes, dear, I thought we had made that point pretty clear," Narcissa's response was a monotone. She didn't even raise her eyes from the Witch Weekly.

But he hated them. He really did. It wasn't even Pureblood tradition, or a Death Eater's words. It was personal.

That day had begun so adorably well... Why couldn't it remain like that?

Lucius had been parading around the ministry like the diva he was. Everything had been perfectly fine. His influence over the Daily Prophet was steadily gathering voters for Cornelius. Arthur Weasley had been disgraced by his time in the Order of the Phoenix or however else Dumbledore's little resistance called itself and still kept in the same disregarded job in the ministry as always. The Longbottoms had been lobotomized by the Lestranges. The potters were deceased. Black was in Azkaban... They gave him free reign, removing all strong Pureblood families from the way like an early Christmas gift... It only attested to his Slytherin composure and grace that he wasn't skipping around with glee, but he did want to.

He strode across the Minister of Magic's sumptuous and empty office, more for the impressiveness of walking into the most restricted parts of the ministry like he owned the place than for any particular objective. Of course that was an objective in itself, since anyone powerful enough to do just that would be looked up to and admired, even if a Weasley or another would squeal with indignation. The loser.

That was when an owl which could very well have been a ministry owl dropped an envelop by soaring almost straight at his head, actually snarling in the process, as much as owls shouldn't be able to do that. The animal was gone as fast as it had come, or he would have hexed its wings off.

Looking just as composed as ever, for Lucius wouldn't look any other way if he had something to say in the matter, he reached for the envelop. It didn't have a name, the seal was just a plain drop of wax. Maybe it was intended for someone else and that wretched bird had just happened to decide he was as good a target as any. Well, it was not as if he cared about whoever the destinatary had been anyways, and the blank parchment was making him curious.

He opened and read it. Then he read it again. Then he set it on fire. Then he felt stupid because he couldn't track it to the source anymore, which probably wouldn't have worked in first place. Then what was written on it sunk in truly and he collapsed at the Minister's chair so deep in thought he didn't even marvel in his own awesomeness.

It said:_ "The business with 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune' was rather telling of your true loyalties... As the Dark Mark on your left arm is. You ought to be more careful with your politics..."_

First off, it was evident it was for him and he couldn't pretend that it wasn't. The "business with 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune'" was a reference to his attempt to censure said tale upon becoming a Hogwarts' Governor, which had both put him in animosity with Dumbledore and been a show of his Pureblood Supremacy views. On second thought it had been a very Death Eater-ish speech, if properly distorted. The rest of it was a blatant threat of denouncing him if he made more outright anti-muggle campaigns. Clever.

A bit ungracious, if he was to say anything. The owl's attack certainly had been a bit of an overkill. Freakish animal.

Whatever the outcome, he had a political enemy. Most certainly a blood-traitor. He was inclined to think of the person as a Slytherin, though the blood-traitor-ness attested against that. He certainly wouldn't put it past a Ravenclaw. Or Dumbledore, for that matter, if Dumbledore hadn't already answered him. And he answered back. And it developed into an exchange of written insults. Which could have been very well intercepted by whoever had sent this.

What? Now he couldn't be anti-muggle anymore? He was a Blood Supremacist! That's what he did!

But he could hardly risk ending in Askaban and disgracing the lives of his family. Principally now they had little Draco.

How glorious.

Which leads us to Lucius whining at Narcissa. And making up his mind this wasn't over yet. Though he was not sure what he was going to do yet, either. But as Narcissa smiled at him and told him everything was going to be alright even though she didn't have the barest idea what his problem was and was just giving her support like the good wife she was, he decided he could play this game. Because his family was worth it.

Because his family was worth it, he was capable of both crushing his enemies like bugs or joining them, abandoning all his beliefs. Because he had Narcissa, Draco and even his dad. He had all the opportunities he could have, he had free reign of the Ministry, he was the most important family lord at the moment, his family was perfect, and veiled threats handed by murdering birds didn't matter.

Not that he would do nothing about it, but it paled in comparison to his wife's sincere smile or the one that would light his son's features like someone had turned an extra light on. It paled before the necessity of attending to their every whim, to the necessity of keeping those smiles there. And he would keep them there, even if for that he had to be a complete bastard. Not that he minded being an evil bastard, bad guys were stylish.

Huh, thinking about that, he should start looking for Christmass presents...

* * *

This world is about adaptation. The ones who are fit survive. The ones who are strong survive. The one who have allies survive. That is the law of nature.

When Grindewald was brought down, the wolves survived. They came to England, following the trail, tthese to and the whispers of a second Dark Lord. They hid under the black cloaks of Death Eaters, taking shelter from the persecution of the Law, bringing carnage for their amusement. Both grew prosper in some kind of mutualism.

The wolves were strong. They were smart and adaptable.

Fenrir Greyback, as the alpha, was very keen on keeping the pack alive, once He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named too was down.

The Dark Lord post wouldn't be empty for long. It never was. Darkness needed someone to lord over it as a pack needed an alpha to guide it. That too was a law of nature.

Therefore he again followed scents and whispers.

There were the ones of the possible return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Once he did, Fenrir wouldn't hesitate to come and feast upon the spilled blood. But in the meantime he couldn't see those filthy wizards risking their necks by consorting with werewolves, not when their master was gone.

If one only looked for it, one could catch a glimpse of the threads of a forming spider web. Still too delicate and invisible to bother humans, but strong enough to capture his senses.

There were no disappearings. No, that was too Voldemort. There were accidents, sicknesses ans unrelated, odd events here and there too subtle to be something meaningful. But to his acute wolf senses, someone was clearly testing the waters, something was getting ready... For what he did not care.

He wasn't going to say it was unwelcome, not when knocturn alley was so empty and subdued. It didn't look too well like that.

So he followed the scent. It reeked of blood, of madness, of fire and he was delighted by it. What wasn't his surprise when he found the uncounspicious, muggle-seeming little man by the end of the bread-crumbs.

He and his pack surrounded the ascending power of the one known as Moriarty, to the tune of a Muggle song which made him smile predatorily.

_"It's close to midnight/ Something evil's lurkin' in the dark /Under the moonlight/ You see a sight that almost stops your heart/ You try to scream/ But terror takes the sound before you make it/ You start to freeze/ As horror looks you right between the eyes/ You're paralyzed/ 'Cause this is thriller/ Thriller night/ And no one's gonna save you/ From the beast about to strike..."_

* * *

**Welcome to the amazing A/N section in which I rant over things you don't care about!**

**First off, thank you for all the people who read it, but specially the ones who favorited and reviewed because we all know it is nice feeling the love. So, special thanks to: Dean5887, nemoem and zenyel for favoriting and to zenyel and sombra- The Ressurection for reviewing.**

**Then I'd like to excuse myself for anything that might be odd, I'll explain it eventually during the story. Probably. If I discover it is odd for people outside my head.**

**Mycroft there was a scene inspired by a review, so, yay, this story has seen to its purpose already. Feel happy. Though it might have run away with me because I was just out of geography classes, which tends to result in infinite rants over badly managed governments to the point I sound like a raging Marxist. Just to explain it if he is out of character.**

**Lucius was... Unexpected. I think I might have ran away to the country of cracky comedy and soft cuddles while writing that one. I'm not even going to comment on that.**

**And the Thriller thing was too much fun not to be added... Oops. Do I redeem myself for it being Michael Jackson and therefore good music? No? Musical fanfiction sucks? Oh... Well... I kind of like them... Sorry.**

**If the plans keep the same, expect some Harry (Potter! Not John's sister! John is not even living with Sherlock yet! ... What the hell is up with this timeline!?) next chapter, and maybe a time skip.**

**Hope you liked it, good night, or whatever timeframe you are in, and if you like, review away! May everyone's plates be filled with pudding. Unless you don't like pudding. Then have something else.**


	3. Special - Leaky Cauldron & Dumbledore

**This is not the chapter I promised, but rather, a gift to ****zenyel****, who has given me more ideas and support on this story than she/he should and got me all jumpy. This happened somewhere between scenes one and two of last chapter.**

**If I fail to meet any expectations, I'm a little tired.**

**Disclaimer: If I'm writing this to dig my English back from wherever it burried itself, then logically I'm not from England and can't possibly have ownership over Harry Potter or Sherlock's royalties.**

* * *

Mycroft wasn't sure in what state he expected to find Sherlock, he had imagined everything from smug, drinking butterbeer with the wizards, to panicking completely and in a state he'd have to call an ambulance. He also wasn't going to begin to wonder why Sherlock thought the murky entrance to Diagon Alley was a good place for meetings. Mycroft preferred to avoid the place altogether. Lost as he was in his own musings, he certainly hadn't expected to be crashed into when he was nearing the door of the Leaky Cauldron and dragged to a hiding in a side alley.

"Look! There goes another one!" He heard Sherlock whisper, pointing to a witch in Auror robes exiting the bar. They both watched in silence as the woman looked around, deemed she was alone and disapparated away. Then Sherlock made an odd sound, gesticulating in anger, before voicing his thoguhts. "They always disappear! How can I do anything when they disappear? Except for the own who took the bus, but then the bus disappeared too!"

Mycroft blinked. Was Sherlock hyper? God help him.

He decided to thread very carefully. "Sherlock... What are you doing?"

"Watching. There's a secret society of stick-waving pointy-hatted people living in London, as you know. What else are you hiding from me? Has the teleporter been invented?" Sherlock took about 1,5 second to say everything, worse than his usual rapidfire of words.

Mycroft hid the need to heave a long-suffering sigh behind the most oily smile ever smiled. "Why, brother mine, magic is real," and waited for the horns of Apocalypse to roar.

It was rather anticlimactic that Sherlock simply stopped his almost-bouncing-on-his-feet for a second before saying a very matter-of-fact "oh," and then leaned on the wall to peer at another wizard exiting the bar.

Mycroft wasn't going to give Sherlock the pleasure of seeing him pinching himself to see if he as awake. Why didn't Sherlock start screeching at him that none of this could be real, that his senses were deceiving him, anything? He had to be feeling at least a bit shocked. "You are dealing very well with the prospect of every rule in which you base your reasoning being wrong."

"They're not wrong, they are just bendable. And I'm over that too," he said, baring his armful of nicotine patches for a second, not even looking back at Mycroft. The older brother was refraining from commenting on the nicotine amount by being pleased that there was at least an amount of discomfort in the other's voice. Not because of the discomfort (perhaps), but because he was right there was one in the first place. There was the telltale crack of a disapparition. "Why does it do that noise?", Serlock was back to the hyper state which denounced his curiosity.

Mycroft made a noncommittal sound and went to peer over his brother's shoulder as well, feeling more than a bit silly. "We could always go eat something while you question me," he said, betting all his money the up of the day was going to be when he finally gave in to the temptation and burrowed himself at Dyogenes Club. His bet was proved right when Sherlock waved his dismissal of the food.

"You're going fatter. Problems besides the obvious?"

Mycroft grimaced at the comment and threw it back. "You're going slower. Interests besides the obvious?" he didn't need Sherlock mocking him about his failure at granting national security.

"There were the cases you tried to distract me with", Mycroft received a very dark look, "and the owls."

Mycroft was supposed to have a far advantage over the multitracking abilities of his brother's mind, but drew a complete blank at that. "The owls?"

"Yes, at the very same day I was unseemingly hugged by one of these brightly-colored individuals squeaking over the death of I-should-really-know-who-by-now, happened that owls phenomen which got me distracted and I ended up tangenciating the case at first. But the trainable owls were a pretty thing for experiments. About that, give Camile to me, please."

"Camile?" Sherlock had already started walking and Mycroft cursed having to follow him to continue the conversation. Hyperactive Sherlock was something he shouldn't have to deal with in his best days.

"One of your owls which I nicked and trained to attack strangers. It still keeps going back to your house and it is a bother to break in there every time I want to check on my experiment. Guessed that is because it reckons it still is your owl." Sherlock made a face. "Should have started by the people in robes after all. Who is Harry Potter?"

"One-year-old defeater of the terrorist leader Lord Voldemort," he ignored his brother's exclamation as he recognized the name as yet another alias which explained nothing of who you-know-who was and continued, "stop breaking into my house."

"No. stop breaking into my house." They were into a glaring contest, which Mycroft lost because they were still walking and where on Earth was Sherlock going that he couldn't simply hail a cab?! "Obvious inconsistency, how did an one year old defeat Voldswhatsit?"

"Magic, brother mine." Mycroft was going for the oily smile again, but the effect was ruined by the walking problem.

"Nonsense. I told you, the logic still works and if this was true, all you had to do every time there was a threat to national security was fling an one year old or another at the threat's face." Sherlock frowned and went for his cellphone. Mycroft played idly with his umbrella.

"No need to research antecedents, you are right, of course," he said after a while. "I'm on it. You'd better spend your efforts in another rather pressing cas-"

"I'm not going to pick any other distraction you throw my way, brother mine, this case, this is a ten. Your best ones are seven or so. Nope." Sherlock seemed to be deciding if he was going to pout before softening into a smile. "I know they're a danger I don't understand yet, so I will try not to make myself a target. No need to worry, brother mine." Would have fooled Mycroft if he didn't use the same smile-and-lie-prettily technique.

Mycroft decided not to voice the failure of the deception, but he tapped the ground with his umbrella disapprovingly. There was a moment of silently challenging each other so intense some passer-bys started to make great detours not to get close to the clashing forces.

"It is rather pressing that the followers of the ex-terrorist are identified and put under observation and I'd like not to count on the wizards' usual investigation systems for that," he pressed.

Sherlock muttered darkly about incompetence and the oldest had to hide a smirk at Anderson's capacity of unknowingly aiding him in his rows with his brother. Of course, Sherlock wouldn't give in completely, not when he was so curious. Not that he wasn't counting on that curiosity. "But I have already taken the little wizard-hero's case, you can't make me give up on it."

Mycroft did his best to look put out by the prospect and failed utterly. "I do have plans of meeting a Headmaster Albus Dumbledore this weekend. If I can't stop you from barging into my house I can hardly stop you from joining the excursion. That if you can catch up with me on this week, we surely don't want you about asking stupid questions." Mycroft was getting a little out of breath. Had Sherlock to walk so very briskly?

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly," and then, as if he couldn't hold himself any longer "I'm not the one missing the main point."

Mycroft smirked, "Being that main point your so-very-secret moving to 221B Baker Street?" Instead of deflating, Sherlock smiled brightly.

"No. You have just walked three kilometers." Sherlock did his smile-and-wink and was swept away by a convenient cab in a fury of movement and a "thank me later" over the shoulder.

Mycroft was wearing a deep frown when he hailed another cab. To the Dyogenes Club it rode.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't going to Floo travel. He wasn't.

The powder was a mix of Barium chloride, an organic substance similar to rubber and ash from some kind of plant he couldn't identify. The Barium chloride explained the green coloration of the flames and the rubber-properties probably stabilized the compound. Which didn't explain half of what it should, and he had no idea what good ash was. Of course, if he couldn't identify the source - rigid type of wood, clear coloration, arbustive, presence of flowers, very dense, burned while green - it had to be some type of magical plant. If the Floo plant story held any credibility all three ingredients had come from the same plant. When he tried to separate the compounds in order to gather more information, the mixture went alight in spontaneous combustion, leaving purple smoke and glitter in it's wake, which made any metal it came in contact with tap-dance.

Thus, Mycroft conceded to use the Knightbus, albeit sourly. Sherlock wasn't about to care, his kitchen was still dancing three days later and they refused to accompany his violin melodies unless it was jazz. He was going to explain that as soon as he got a grasp on the new laws of Science.

Weird that the bus appeared to anyone who raised a wand on the roadside, even if the wand didn't work for the person. Why had Mycroft connections enough to get a real wand for his sparse field trips into the Wizarding London and wouldn't hand one to Sherlock? He wasn't going to play, his experiments weren't toys, he wasn't being immature.

The purple three-deck appeared in front of them. It had reddish mud on the wheels and halfway up on the metal body, which added to the spessure of the mud denoted speed far above allowed anywhere. The mud was from a type of red-earth soil only found in the southwest of the Island. If he crossed Mycroft's files on Wizarding areas in Brittain with the places where it had rained in the last hour-

"Ottery Saint-Catchpole, brother mine," Mycroft ruined the fun, gesturing for him to follow into the bed-populated interior of the bus and smiling with the superior air _he_ should smile with. Old witch in the corner presenting symptoms of motion sickness. Same for the coupe o the second floor- my, it must be a rough ride if all passengers were on varying levels of stomach-emptying.

"Thought you said Hogsmeade?" asked the - London raised, about ten yeas old, had spent the whole day in the bus, was that chocolate?, mildly schooled - boy which had been counting the money. Incomprehensible monetary organization, the decimal system existed for a reason! What fascinating Historical reason must be behind such an inconvenient habit?

"Yes, Hogsmeade, not Catchpole, don't be stupid." Sherlock was further distracted from the conversation: there was a talking voodoo head hanging close to the motorist. How fascinating. Hello, how do you work?

When he was thrown at the front glass of the bus rather painfully by an abrupt halt, he decided maybe poking the live servered head in the eye was a bad choice of action...

* * *

Professor Minerva McGonagall was waiting for the Headmaster's visitors. It was the chilling end of November and her old bones were more affected by the cold than she cared to admit, therefore she was sitting on the relatively warm wall in her cat shape. Why had the visitors suddenly decided to go out in the freezing night instead of just taking the Floo, so late into the schedule, only God knew. Then again, they were from the Ministry. They probably just knew this would make someone's life, somewhere, more miserable, and were acting accordingly. Filch was just the same, deciding to use that particular night to apply detention to the third-years. She better not be getting cranky with the age.

Her cat senses alerted her of the arrival of the Knightbus half a second before it banged to existence before the gates. Two figures stepped out of the vehicle. One of them seemed every bit like a Ministry Official should seem. He was wearing formal robes and had a very fake smile plastered on his face, in a way reminiscent of Cornelius Fudge. The other was wearing a strange robe which billowed in his wake more than Severus' and was looking around in such a childish glee her slightly irrational cat-mind decided it was a first-year student.

She leapt into human-ness, nodding curtly to the officials. She had secretly hoped for astounded faces, after all Animagi were incredible feats of magic and she didn't remember their faces from her classes. The official, perhaps not surprisingly, just looked like he had a suspicion confirmed and nodded back with the fake smile. She was about to start getting annoyed when the one she dubbed first-year asked,

"When you transform without your glasses on, do you still have the markings on your fur? Do cats have myopia?" He frowned and seemed about to say something else, but her teaching mode was already on.

"Excellent questions," five points to Ravencalw, "an Animagi's animal shape will remain with the same characteristics which identify it no matter what the wizard changes in his or her appearance after first attaining success at the transformation. I don't believe my cat form has difficulty seeing, but cannot attest on it once I don't know what the cat-standards of vision are," she returned to the official, "Mycroft Holmes, I presume? I am-"

"Professor Minerva McGonnagal, on the Transfiguration position, Deputy Headmistress and member of the Order of the Phoenix, yes. This is my little brother Sherlock," the man shook her proffered hand, the first-ye- Sherlock Holmes nodding distractedly. Why the mention of the Order of the Phoenix? Was this what this meeting was about? So much for a secret resistance. She hid the urge to sigh and gestured for them to follow.

"Come, the Headmaster shall be waiting."

McGonagall had decided to hate Mr. Holmes the Older on principle because he was a ministry official, but found quite hard to after a while. Not that he was overly symphatic and gallant, but because he and his brother were such an odd sight she didn't know what her feelings should be. Probably revolt. Neither attempted to make small-talk, but they seemed to be on a secret game of subtly mocking each other that she barely grasped the hints of, while all the time they seemed to be taking Hogwarts in, detail by detail.

Not like anyone else when first seeing the school, but in such a peculiar way at a moment the youngest brother was on the ground looking at something up close, through a square glassy thing which seemed to be a modern-designed magnifying-glass. The situation only deteriorated once they entered the castle. The older brother would lean on his umbrella and survey everything the very same way she surveyed a class on a test day and the younger one grunted and exclaimed and made other noises over the most inane things.

It was a slow walk, but part of her felt she'd be committing a serious gaffe in interrupting the process. Principally when she urged them on the first time around and the younger brother remarked rather factually she had nothing better to be doing. She had the urge to take points and assign lines, but then the young man had calmly explained how he deducted she had already finished her markings for the month and she was left to the strangeness of not knowing how to answer someone. The no-nonsense part of her took over once Mr. Holmes the Younger said something about dissecting a painting. She pratically dragged them the rest of the way, leaving them as soon as the staircase started spinning, whith a feeling of exhaustion and gratitude it was over far stronger than the one she had earlier regarding the paperwork.

* * *

Professor Dumbledore was pleased someone accepted his Lemon Drops for once, but couldn't help being on guard over the whole meeting. It had been more than a little shocking to receive a letter from the Muggle Ministry, principally one asking for an interview regarding the Boy-Who-Lived and the Wizarding War. That was the main reason he tried to use legillimence on the two alleged muggles. Which was the main reason he dropped to his chair with a feeling of dizziness.

All in all, it was a more pleasant evening than he could have expected. He was presented to seemingly very useful allies and to a Muggle world quite unlike the one he remembered knowing, although he couldn't claim to have paid lots of attention to it with the busy life defending the Light Side and tutoring young minds made. Somehow he found himself explaining the Potter's case, from prophecy, to love shield, to blood-protection. He was amused by somewhat veiled skepticism over the entire matter, and a resounding, unissonous, pout-added exclamation of "sentiment!" at a point. What was better, the Muggle-Ministry boy had arranged plans for a vigilance over little Harry, and he was presented to something called CCTV, which the formulators of the Statute of Secrecy should never hear mention of. He was also presented to a very careful theory on parallel universes that left him humming and mentally listing preliminary research.

He was sure, of course, their alleignance only went as far as the mutual desires coincided, but as he stroked Fawkes and watched the Holmes brothers sweep out of his tingling-wheezing office, he was sure his eyes were twinkling more madly than usual.

A very good day indeed.

* * *

**I don't have mind for my usual drill of unending A/N, because I'm late right now. So just review away and thanks to who read and double thanks to ****Ghost Without a Name, Reamur ****and**** The Battle of Worlds ****for following. **

**Oh, god, writing Sherlock is exhaustive. Now I get why Doyle wanted to be rid of him. No, wait, I don't. Freak's the best character ever.**


	4. Chapter 2

**I know, way too long of a wait for such a low-level fic. Well, I was traveling so, there. That is why it took so long. I am kind of not happy with this chapter, too, but it is longer than my usual so that is a plus?**

**Disclaimer: I think if I owned any of these, whatever I wrote wouldn't be a fanfic, but the actual story or maybe an omake. Hm. Maybe I do own Camile, but I'm not exactly proud of owning a murdering owl.**

* * *

Chapter Two

-The child, the kitchen and those damn muggles-

Growing up does strange things to one's brain. At first, it is said the memory of a baby is ridiculously good and they can remember everything from (even earlier than) when they were born. As their brain develop, though, the ability to rationalize and retain information is priorized, sensory perception enhanced and all this must go somewhere. Memory is sacrificed.

It is a gradual process, first noticed when a baby starts not recognizing someone and throwing tantrums when entrusted to that person. A four year old can't remember what happened when he/she was one anymore, many successful adults are not sure what they ate for breakfast and many old people can barely remember their own names.

Memory is, indeed, a very odd thing. It can't be simplified that much.

Selective memory, for example: one can file away pretty much everything they consider important in what Sherlock Holmes would exemplify with his mind palace, the same way one can chose to forget a very traumatic moment, creating the phenomen known as repressed memories. For some reason, one never forgets how to ride a bycicle, but struggle as you might, you won't remember that specific formula you need to answer the math test you didn't study for in time to answer the question.

The closer one gets to understand the workings of human mind, the further the answer gets.

As Harry grew up in the Durley's cupboard, the memories from his previous life got dulled down and bleached like coffe to which was added too much milk.

It came to a point he didn't know if what he remembered was real or had come from a dream.

How could have it been real? How could such an extraordinary world exist when faced with the dull routine of the bleak universe known as Privet Drive? But how could it not, when he dreamt of a far too long time with far too many details? Though, admittedly, he couldn't remember most of those details unless he had just woken up from a dream-or-was-it-a-memory; he was many times was left wondering what was the awesome, wind-rushing sensation he had dreamed about or being glad the eternal lack of happiness he experienced during the night not to be real.

Magic was one thing he believed to be real. He knew that because when he was gardening, his favorite chore even though it was rather tiresome and even painful, he'd always think of his mom, Lily, because they had lilies, and from there his mind travelled to all the faint images of his possibly-imaginary friends he had loved, and he felt good. The garden would flourish more than any in the neighborhood, even when it was not the season. Of course, on the few times he had been feeling good enough for a brilliant, yet transparent, stag to materialize and trott around him, his uncle had gone and beat "the freakishness" out of him, so he tuned down his euphory and finished the garden as quickly as he could so nothing weird would happen.

Part of the time, though, Harry spent wondering if his freakishness just meant he was insane and he had imagined not only the magical school which would save him from the Dursleys when he turned eleven - why he hadn't imagined it closer to his current age of five he couldn't tell - but also the odd things like the stag or the whole haircut incident. He would be half sure nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened to him and he should hide from the doctors otherwise he'd be sent to an hospice or something, hadn't the Dursleys thrown so big of a fit whenever they saw or heard of his freakishness.

So when he was not tending the garden, he forced himself to forget the pointy hats and flying brooms and Gryffindor and giants and goblins and ghosts and magic... He focused on cleaning the floor until he could see his tired green eyes looking back at him; on polishing all the surfaces until they were shiny enough that it hurt when you looked directly at them; on cooking the food for the Dursleys and not spilling anything even though he was not high enough to reach the sink or anywhere else without the aid of at least a stoll; on the delicious taste of the little food he was given; on avoiding Dudley at the same time he trailed after the bigger boy scooting up the garbage left on his wake; on trying not to feel too miserable, because if he did he would go back to creating a world that was too fantastic and good to be real and would just feel even more miserable than before. He didn't need self-pity, and someone once had warned him against living in dreams and forgetting reality.

The Dursleys weren't that awful. Of course, they hated him and they yelled at him and they beat him, but they didn't just throw him out like they were always threatening to and never underfed him enough so that he would have to be taken to the hospital - after all he was not sure they would take him to the hospital if he was ill... And he hadn't died yet, so they probably knew what they were doing...? Well, at least they weren't half as bad as his imaginary enemy he-who-his-mind-had-not-creativity-enough-to-name.

Therefore Harry endured the Dursleys, even when they said he was nothing more than a freak and he should have been grateful they allowed him to sleep under their roof and called his parents bad things and were generally horrible and purple-faced, because it was probably the normal reaction a person had when told to take care of the orphan crazy child who only bought problems. Harry didn't hate them even when he sometimes thought that he might.

He hated getting beaten, though, and because of that he used all the speed he had when Dudley tried to Harry Hunt him, kept his head bent as much as his small pride allowed him to and did his work as well as possible. Yet, sometimes he had to wonder what he had done to deserve that, why his parents had to die in the car-crash, what was wrong with this world where he couldn't, wouldn't fight back. There was something terribly wrong with not fighting back. But Harry couldn't just hurt the Dursleys the way they hurt him, could he? That was not the point. He wouldn't want to hurt them even if he had hated them, but he had promised himself this time over it was going to be different and nobody would get hurt(of course he didn't mean himself, he meant the people he had disappointed in the first chance that he wouldn't now in his second, which made no sense since whatever had traumatized him Had. Been. A. Dream.), doing nothing wasn't helping him keep the promise.

When the day was over, the muscles sore, often not only because of his hard work, the helplessness starting to sink in just as the darkness within his cupboard, his mind would creep to his least favorite part of his mental world, just as much as he tried not to allow it to. Then there were black-hooded masked people, giant snakes, evil rotting floating happiness-suckers and green light, lots of green light. He just wished he could sleep, that this time it was not a nightmare, instead it was the redhead boy and the bushy haired girl... He had their names on the tip of his tongue...

* * *

You might remember Victor Pepper as the bulky, bald thug in the background. The one who drove Mycrof's uncounspicious black car at one opportunity. No? That one who helped looming over the criminals and brandished a gun... Nobody remembers him? Alright, he is not very important.

He had been ordered to watch the video feed from a few vigilance cameras, having the day shift while one of his colleagues had the night shift. He didn't wonder if it was a promotion or a demotion, it was the boss' orders and that was all he needed to know. He had been told of some top-secret information about the existence of magic and the need to watch over the magical child who was the Subject. He didn't ask any questions, what he had been told was what he needed to know in order to perform the job and he wasn't going to get told more if he asked.

It was a very boring job, to just sit there and watch, but he wasn't about to complain. His morality would have stopped him from participating in that travesty of a Big Brother once, but now he had seen much more than enough to contest his moralities and his belief of working for the safety of the nation had more foundation than any other of his ideologies. He didn't know what to think of the existence of magic and thus preferred not to think about it at all. He just wrote his weekly reports dutifully, addressing everything that needed to be addressed and being as objective and succinct as he could.

With time, he felt the inevitable pull of sentiment, as he began to grow fond of the Subject. It was bad, many men had lost their jobs for sacrificing anonymity or pledging in favor of their Subjects when all they needed to do was to watch and report. This time, he wasn't strong enough to ignore the feelings.

It was utterly ridiculous.

He sat there, watching the messy haired child with fondness, cheering for him and suffering along with him as an hysterical old lady with soap opera. More times than he could count he cursed the deafness of the image only cameras, as much as he thanked God for the same reason, as he watched the child grow repressed and shunned in a corner.

He didn't like the idea of the abusing relatives who took care of the Subject keeping the child under their awful, angry watch. His reports turned into pledges more often than not.

Of course, his boss was a good man, an attentious man, who wouldn't have ignored his judgement if he said in his report the house was unfit to foster the child, but the child was the business of a second boss too, a magical one, who didn't think an abusive environment much of a drawback in a child's life.

He had spoken to the magical boss' agent once. She was either a very good actress pretending to be an old cat-lady or an actual old cat-lady. He also didn't know if she was too professional to feel anything for the poor child or so unprofessional she didn't pay attention enough to the child or felt too guilty to admit there even was something wrong. Either way, she was a bit more than unhelpful, as was the magical boss, who his old-lady-watching-soap-opera mind was starting to hate fiercely.

His boss, Mycroft, had been hinting his disagreement with keeping the state of affairs, so he had decided it was an encouragement to take the matter to his own hands.

Victor knew that anything he did would result in his immediate dismissal. He had been hired to follow orders, nothing more, nothing less. He was not supposed to surrender to sentiment and do like so many others, yet he fancied he knew more or less who he worked to. If his boss wanted to do something that would be wrong, no doubt off the records he would be proud, even if he was fired. Right?

Oh, he should quit justifying himself. He was not a coward, he did the right thing. That was the reason he entered the MI-6. That was the reason he left MI-6 and went to work with his boss. That would be the reason he would... What? Spend the rest of his life watching Mexican low-level entertainment? Figures.

This day, though, Victor didn't just sit and watch. He felt more victorious than the whole time since he had been transferred for this job. He smiled grimly at the thin-lipped horse-face and the finger-waving orca as they "reminded the boy of his duties" or some such nonsense. He dialed the Social Services' number.

* * *

Companion Toaster, Companion Spoon, Companion Knife and Companion Teacup were in a meeting of the Kitchen's Revolutionaries' headquarters, which for the moment was the Chemical-Products-Not-Allowed-Cupboard, because no other place was safe, really.

They were arranging the Magna Carta of their new society once it was purged of both human influence and the rule of Lady McFridge and her iron grip. They wanted equality for all kitchen utensils and the inalienable right of refusing to take part in potentially dissolving and gruesome activity. They even had a Musical Rights Declaration, with which the resident musician should compromise to play at least an hour of jazz per day so that the kitchen objects could waltz around cheerfully.

Their revolution would be bombastic, sudden and awe-inspiring, as well as based in the ideals of Engels (not Marx, Marx was so overrated) and the non-violent passive non-obedience methods of Gandhi. It would be incredible.

Of course, it would be wise to advert that Companion Toaster did, in fact, work for Lady McFridge. He was an informant and as soon as the reunion was over, the new decisions would leak like liquid through a sieve. He wasn't going to help them bring down the regimen; some people had high places in the hierarchy stablished by McFridge and would prefer to keep them.

Accordingly, there was a secret Congregation happening in the Cutlery Drawer, to formulate the Spoons Republic, in which the round silverware controlled the destiny of all. Companion Spoon was just waiting for the distressing moment when McFridge toppled from the throne so they could seize the power and stablish a Censitary Democacy where only the Silvermade had voting rights.

Companion Knife worked for Sherlock, the human, because she thrived in blood spill and chaos. There was no better provider of both forms of entertainment, although the consultant detective was admittedly not very popular with most the utensils. McFridge absolutely loathed the man since the Servered Head Episode.

Companion Teacup secretly worked for John, as did the whole Tea Department. He was the one most utensils didn't fly for their lives on sight, which probably gave him some brownie points. Figurative brownies. Expecting them to feed humans with no payment whatsoever, brownies out of everything, was just plain slavery. Thus, all heads of the revolution were planning on backstabbing each other, as much as some of them were not fit for stabbing, and the Kitchen's Revolution was bound to end horribly, bloodily and messily.

It never came to happen, as all the kitchen utensils secretly SECRETLY worked for Ms. Hudson and she would have never allowed such a thing.

* * *

John entered the kitchen whistling some half-forgotten tune, dodged Sherlock's dangerous experiment stuff on the table and set about making tea. Or watching as the tea made itself. He wasn't really going to complain.

Magic had been a shock, at first, but way easier to live down than Sherlock's general weirdness. Which he had adapted to as well. He considered himself a survivor. Four years living with Sherlock without strangling him even once? Alright, maybe once. Twice. Three times. In the most, five. But he hadn't gotten near to killing him ever and that was what counted. So far, he had only the blood of his least successful (as in, Sherlock got too caught in the thrill of it all not to act like an excitable puppy) cases in his hands and that was enough. Come on guys, he was the naive civil out of the duo, he wasn't supposed to just go around shooting everybody, though he did do that more often than he should. Blame Afheganistain. After the war and Sherlock being Sherlock, really, magic shouldn't have made him bat an eyelash.

In his defense, he hadn't reacted half as bad as Lestrade in his first 'Drugs Bust' since the new addition to not-so-mundane-life's not-mundaneness... Or the second drugs bust, or the third... Eventually Mycroft had decided to get the DI a special pass from the Ministry of Magic and they had stopped sending in Obliviators, but it had been rather comical while it lasted. He tried very hard to keep a straight face as Sherlock had spectacular anger fits at the perpetual exact same slack-jawed reaction from the Scotland-Yarders. He had even stopped trying to explain the whole society-of-wand-waving-non-logical-people story and had started coming up with all sort of nonsense just for the sake of it. It was somewhat unfortunate that when the obliviators finally didn't come, Greg and his team believed with all their hearts that a couple glittering squids from space had bestowed Sherlock the power of telekinesis. Mycroft nearly had a stroke when he heard of that and had to explain the whole issue to the policemen again, viciously having not-Anthea kidnap them to solve absolutely boring cases for the next month as venage. John didn't feel nearly as sorry as he should for the entire incident.

He took the couple of mugs with an appreciative nod to the vague area of the kettle, added the foul look he usually sent the stove (it had been telegraphing bloody insults ever since Sherlock had the brilliant idea of teaching it Morse Code. Even his army-creative tongue hadn't known such a range of expletives, heck, sometimes he wanted to throw the ungrateful bastard out of a window) and went back to his couch where he was trying to blog about a case involving Aurors while censoring all the magic. It was rather challenging.

He dropped Sherlock's mug close to the sofa where he was currently burying his face and moping in angst because of the lack of cases. Somewhere in the shadows, Camile, the Evil Owl of Doom, rooted angrily in warning. It was way too fucking possessive of Sherlock. The man didn't even feed the bird ("of course not, John, she is perfectly capable of watching over herself"), not to mention it was nearly impossible for him to keep what the owl considered a respectable distance of one meter when they lived and did pretty much everything together. John still had the scars to prove his defying of Camile's rage, but damn him if he was going to lose to a bird. At least the whole criminal London populace was terrified of it, which made the deranged bird just bearable enough that John didn't put a bullet through its eye. Just. Barely. Fucking devilspawn from hell.

Where was he? Ah, yes, "my friend again astounded us with his observation powers when he commented matter-of-factedly on the shopkeeper's origin..."

* * *

Lucius threw himself facefist on the bed like the drama-queen he really was, complete with a heartfelt sigh.

"I hate muggles," he whined into the sheets, his voice coming muffled and barely comprehensible.

"Yes, dear, I thought we had made that point pretty clear," Narcissa's response was a monotone. She didn't even raise her eyes from the Witch Weekly.

Uh, de-ja-vù.

But he hated them, he really did. With the passion of a gazillion burning supernovas. He wished them all caught terminal diseases and died. Something ominous and muggle-sounding like k- ken- no, wait, can- cancer. Yeah, that's it. Filth. It would be a favor to the universe if they stopped wasting the space they set their foot on. They should be Crucioed to oblivion so much the Longbottoms would seem lucid by comparision. His list of acceptable endings for the muggle race was endless and pretty like a diamond.

It hadn't begun well, in the strict sense of the world, but it had begun reasonably ok.

He had been defending pro-muggle politics in the Wizengamont and dancing tango over his pride's cove, but his grudging wasn't showing so much because he was an excellent actor, the most awesome politician ever born, his father could just take his all-talent-not-used-in-the-objective-of-supporting-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-is-wasted-talent speech and shove it right up his... Nose. He meant to say nose. He was not disrespecting his Noble Father, Abraxas Malfoy.

Really, he was doing quite well. Behaving.

It was definitively not because when he tried to hex the Cave Troll Pretending To Be An Owl it dodged, then dodged again and just kept dodging like some kind of battle-trained Quidditch star and then vindictively dropped its droppings all over his perfect hair. He was NOT afraid of the bird OR it's mysterious owner.

Everything was made bearable by the completely baffled stares he got from Dumbledore and Weasley. Though, of course, he wasn't just committing the political suicide of denying everything he had said from the beginning. He was just bending the truth and people's perception a little until it sounded like what all Purebloods should do was protect the muggles, because he was that much of a Slytherin.

Sometimes he almost convinced himself of stuff like "muggleborns need to be assisted when joining Hogwarts because they don't know many of the traditions they should know to live in Wizarding society" or "muggle technology these days is so advanced it could be a threat to us wizards, with their bombs capable of wiping out an entire city and other nightmarish rumors, so it should be studied and comprehended in order to be stopped from harming the magical community".

He left the humanitarian nail-digging-across-blackboard speech of "informed muggleborns can actually become more successful in their careers after leaving Hogwarts" and "the interchange of culture and knowledge between Muggle and Magical World could bring enormous development to both" to the light side, because those felt like someone was digging nails into his brain. He even had the grace of getting red and start spluttering as if he had not realized what were the implications of his suggestions and could no longer turn back on his words every once in a while, even if only to keep the Old Cot's calculating and surprised gaze away from him.

The press had also been very calculating and Rita Skeeter had started buzzing around too nosedly for his taste, until he reminded her quite delicately who she owned her ascending career on the Prophet to. Now he was a Good Samaritan to the whole Prophet-Reading population.

Probably the only thing he couldn't stand was Arthur Weasley trying to make amends, clearly on Dumbledore's command, looking like the epitome of awkward and talking for hours on end about muggle contraptions he didn't give two shits about. He'd have banged his head against a wall if it hadn't been such a classless thing to do. He wondered how many hexes at the redhead could pass by accident before the Ministry Officials he had bargained into submission. His calculations showed a very unsatisfactory number and he decided to leave it for later.

Later didn't come, as his misfortune came when he was parading with his dramatic cane and glorious haute couture robes in that evening, being eyed with envy by every witch and wizard until he came to sit down at the deserted Hogwarts Governors' Office (they just went there when there was a reunion. Except Lucius, who went there just for the sake of appreciating how he really owned the whole thing. Not that he didn't own every place he set foot on, regardless of who had the property papers).

By the head of the table, where his chair was, there was an envelop.

He eyed the room suspiciously, half expecting the Winged Creature From Darkness to come out of a shadowy corner and tear his neck apart with its claws.

When it didn't - and he had spent three whole minutes frozen in panic like a deer in headlights, his left eye twitching a little - he ripped the paper apart with rather more violence than it deserved.

Out from the package dropped a square-y black thing. He nudged it with his wand and cast a few diagnosing spells, before deciding it was some muggle silly thing and that Arthur Weasley had probably sent it in order to make friends. Idiot.

Then it started buzzing, playing some sort of music and glaring garish light into the Malfoy's pretty eyes. Lucius very manly threw it against the nearest wall with a terrified shriek.

It bounced off the wall, clanking and losing some bits, but it didn't stop blasting some ungodly song the Weird Sisters would have been proud of, all the while shaking like a drunk snake and crawling around the floor in his direction. The thing was alive and out to get him.

He AK'd it.

It exploded.

And promptly regenerated.

Inferi muggle tech, ruining Lucius' life since... Nah, first time it ever happened. Still terrifying, though.

It took about twenty destructions until Lucius resigned himself to his fate and dared to approach the little demon warily. There was something about pressing the green button written on the mystery shining glass of terror so that was what he did. Not to mention the other option was red: it was definitively a Slytherin/Gryffindor test and he was going to die before he picked the red one.

He was rewarded with a view of his son's bored face.

"Hi daddy," Daraco said, brightening up. "Good Afternoon."

Lucius' mind drew a blank. Was this... Like a firecall? Why would his son be aware of the workings of Muggle Floo? "Hey Draco," he said, unable to keep from frowning in disapproval, which wiped the smile from his son's face more effectively than denying him candy. "What is this?"

Draco bit his lip - he had already told him to stop doing that - and looked around. "It is a game, daddy," he paused and then added hastily, "I told the mister you were busy, but he said it was really important that we play this game and that you wouldn't mind. I said you wouldn't like us interrupting your work, but he did not listen to me. Sorry." It took Draco about ten seconds to shoot these words.

Lucius was getting a bad feeling and something told him it was not only because of the Inferi Muggle Floo. "The... Mister? What Mister?"

Draco looked at something above his shoulder and Lucius resisted the urge to spin around looking for the unknown person. Then the image unfocused as Draco spun his Muggle thing around with a cheerful "say hi" and all blood drained from his face. Sharp teeth gleamed back at him from Fenrir Greyback's mouth. What. The. Hell. Was Fenrir Greyback doing in his garden?!

"Wait right there Draco. Don't do anything, I'm coming home." He was already up and striding away from the anti-apparition wards-

"No! Daddy, it is against the game's rules and mister says terrible things will happen if we break the game's rules!" The non-preoccupied tone of the child did nothing to calm Lucius down when looking into the glass he saw Greyback wiggle his eyebrows mockingly at him. Lucius froze. Get away from Draco right now you son of a bitch.

"Draco," he asked tightly, "what are the game's rules?"

"Hmm, Mister says I must pass a message and that you'll know what it means. It is rather boring. Apart from that you must give the right answer and you can't come here until he says it is over? I figure it is a riddles game? I'd really be doing something else but I can't seem to find anyone. You think Mom is out with her friends?"

Lucius was finding harder and harder to stop himself from Lasceroing something. "I don't know, Draco. What is the message?"

"Hmm, hope she brings me some pumpkin pastries when she comes back. Huh? The message?" The five years old furrowed his brow in thought. "There are more players in the game than meets the eye. Know where to place your alliance. The black marbles have a new king..." he exited the reciting monotone with a shrug "I think I got it right. Is this about Gobstones or Wizard Chess? I want one of these things. Is it some kind of twin mirror?" The image once again went incomprehensible as Draco turned the thing this side and the other examinating it.

Lucius' mind was elsewhere. Did this mean there was a new Dark Lord out and about and it was asking for his support? Lucius would usually prefer to keep careful and neutral until there was something definite, he had already more stalkers and unlikely alliances than he should, but he could hardly call himself careful letting Fenrir Damn Greyback sit with his son and chatt away the afternoon until he decided it was time to bite the nearest soft-meated neck. Part of him wanted to go around screaming and laughing hysterically like Bellatrix on suggar high, while the other part just wanted to weep in a corner. Both parts were unhappy.

"We can visit Diagon Alley later and buy you an actual twin mirror if you want, Draco. Tell the mister I'm betting on the black marbles. If this silly game is quite over, I'm coming home."

Which leaded to Lucius smothering Draco with such despaired glee the child was preoccupied with his sanity, reinforcing the wards, screeching at the house elves over the security breach and further laying and whining to his wife in utter defeat and fear.

Narcissa peered carefully from behind her magazine. "Maybe we should take a small vacation in France, what do you think?"

Yes. Anything. As long as there were no werewolves, muggles or owls. Specially muggles. Dementors were better than muggles. Burn them all.

* * *

**Huh, my seriousness had limits. This is probably going to turn into a cracky fic sooner rather than later. Meh. Sorry for everything. I am really, really sorry for this chapter. It was even supposed to be important rather than a fillery crappy comedy thing. I don't know what happened. And don't even ask about the kitchen thing. It totally stole my hands and wrote itself. And Lucius... God, I should say I am sorry about Lucius, but I have the feeling this will only get worse and I don't want to spend the rest of my writing career apologizing.**

**Remember that fate's game thing on the first chapter? Very well, so I have two questions to you guys in order to steer this fic further.**

**1) how do you feel about Master of Death Harry? Do I keep that?**

**2) the OCs, or conceptual characters, such as Fate, Death and maybe others should make an appearance?**

**I kind of have two probable tangents to follow depending on the result of this so you review with your opinion. What did you say? I'm a cheap review whore? ...Eh, I wouldn't put on these therms but you're probably right.**

**And thanks to everyone who either followed or favorited (****HeavensDemonHellsAngel****, ****Long Live the Slayer****, ****loretta537****, ****Aine5****, ****Aristanae****, ****Rannu182**** and ****Treebroke****). Heh, so many of you. And me here thinking this story was stupid and nobody was going to read. Yay. Thank you guys.**

**And thank ****zenyel**** for reviewing again! Every chapter so far? You're awesome! And thank you for reviewing, ****loretta537****, hope you keep enjoying it.**

**Thanks for reading, and hope we see each other again soon with more chapters. Hopefully less nonsensical ones.**

**May all delicious food be ever in your favor.**


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